Scotch and Chess
by arainyspringmorning
Summary: A bit of Cherik fluff-drabble.


_Scotch and Chess_

_-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-_

With a sneer, Erik takes advantage of Charles' lapse in concentration and captures the white queen with his rook. He refills his glass with scotch, admiring the amber liquid spiraling into the clear crystal, basking in a brief moment of subtle triumph. Erik, by no doubt, likes to win at anything, from a simple exchange of words to correcting anyone at any time at just about anything. But he especially likes winning a game of chess against his telepathic friend. He looks up over the rim of his glass at Charles and pauses, the edge of the glass resting against his lip.

Charles is fast asleep.

Erik stares for a moment at the sleeping Englishman, admiring the glow of the fireplace on his frighteningly pale skin and watching the telepath's head bob slightly towards his left shoulder, one arm limp on the armrest and the other resting on his stomach. His hair is slightly tousled from when he ran a hand through it, contemplating his next move rather seriously. The glass still clutched between Charles' fingertips is beginning to tilt inwards, and Erik leaps up, as stealthily as a panther, before Charles is rudely awoken from his rather peaceful curl. As Erik's hand gently folds around Charles', and uses his other to grasp the dangerously-tilted glass, Charles shifts and mumbles, his voice thick and rich with yearning, "_Erik._"

The hairs on the back of Erik's neck lift and he still completely, almost expecting Charles to sense the closing proximity of their heads, and for his bright blue eyes to snap open to glare suspiciously at Erik leaning over him. Of course, all would be quickly corrected in the moment Charles reflexively lifts a finger to his left temple (inevitably spilling his drink, as that is the very hand in which it is held), and any matter, (that might be between two ordinary humans unable to read minds and clear up situations that could lead to… different circumstances) would be over in a couple of laughs and an offer to finish their abandoned game.

But Charles doesn't open his eyes, and Erik feels a rush of relief. He pries the scotch out of Charles' hand, sets it with a soft clink on the table next to his, and tells himself to sit down. He has to tell himself because he's stuck in the spot he's standing, his hands poised as though ready to lift or reach out, his eyes locked on Charles. Erik, slightly embarrassed as he registers his thoughts that Charles should be able to hear as clear as day, longs to hear Charles' voice say his name again like he had. _Better yet, astride him in bed…_

Erik mentally slaps himself and turns away, heading for the nearest window that was as far away from Charles as he could get. His face is flushed and he can feel discomfort tingling and dripping like water under his skin. He cracks open the window with a wave of his hand and sits on the edge, staring out at the ring of white around the moon. A cold breeze wafts in, a breath of relief, and Erik hears a confused mumble across the room. He fractionally shifts his head and looks with his eyes, too shy and unprepared to look Charles full in the face, despite the distance between them. The telepath is rubbing his arms, his face angled towards the scotch and chessboard. From what Erik can see from the corner of his eye, Charles is remarkably disheveled, further adding to the blistering-hot scene blossoming in the forefront of Erik's thoughts.

"Erik?" Charles calls sleepily. "Close that window, will you? It's bloody cold out there tonight." Erik is slightly crushed to hear Charles utter his name without the sensual, heavy tone he adopted before, but he obeys quietly; he still never ignores an order. It's engraved into his blood, his skin, his very essence. Erik is a soldier shaped through pain and persistence, but yet a small part of him longs to rebel. Charles wouldn't like that, though; not Erik's desire to stretch free from barbed wire confines, but if Erik lost himself completely to rage.

"Ah, shall we finish our game?" Charles smiles as Erik approaches. The metal-bender doesn't sit; he instead rests his palms on the back of the cozy, overstuffed chair and gazes into the flickering amber flames. "I do apologize for falling asleep on you. I've just been so incredibly busy with the children…"

"_Nein. _Don't worry about it," Erik cuts him off briskly and dares to look at Charles. The telepath doesn't appear to notice Erik's inner, silenced struggle with his thoughts; they had already established the fact that Charles was to stay out of Erik's head, and Erik had _some_ faith that Charles would keep his promise. Erik relaxes slightly and returns to his seat, leaning forward to pick up his scotch. Charles carefully content expression has shifted, and from the way his brows are lowering over his sharp eyes, Erik stops mid-swallow at the touch of light pressure caressing the space around his head.

"Charles," he swallows hastily before he speaks in a warning tone, and Charles blinks slowly. The telepath seems to realize what he'd been doing, and a red blush tints the skin stretching over his soft cheekbones. Erik worries that the telepath picked up on something, and he clears his throat.

"Forgive me. As I said, I'm very tired," Charles offers Erik a loose grin that suddenly sends the metal-bender's heart all pitter-patter. Erik silently curses himself. "I believe I am going to retire. We'll… finish this tomorrow?" he gestures to the board. Erik nods sharply and stands, draining his scotch. He doesn't notice Charles watching him.

"Tomorrow, then. See you in the morning," Erik returns Charles easy smile with a much tighter-lipped one and stiffly crosses the room, ignoring the telepath's lingering gaze. Erik hears Charles stand, and he assumes he's risen to shut the door, but when he glances back briefly in the hallway, Charles' head is poking out and his hands are resting on the side of the door. Erik starts to turn back, wondering if he'd forgotten something (although already knowing that he carries nothing on hand), but Charles' hands on the door are empty.

"Um," Charles looks slightly embarrassed, but he grins abashedly like a misbehaving schoolboy and simply murmurs, "Goodnight."

"G'night," Erik replies, his gaze locking momentarily with Charles. Charles nods, his cheeks stain red again (Erik cannot help but feel a burst of sympathy at the fact that Charles' skin is so careless about its oversensitive wearer), and the door presses shut with a soft click. Erik listens to Charles' footsteps, the clink of two glasses, and the sound of a second door closing within his room.

Erik returns to his room, closes the door, and stands in cold blackness for a moment. He'd left the window open to let a breeze into his room to clear the smell of mothballs, but instead of it sending its usual chill up his spine, it's oddly pleasant on his hot skin. Erik leans against his door, tilting his head back, and replays the image of Charles' smile and flushed cheeks. He feels the corners of his own mouth tug into a grin in response. He feels giddy and warm, and for the first time in a long time, that he's not alone in the world anymore.

_We'll finish this tomorrow?_

_Or, maybe we're just getting started._


End file.
